Sunday, March 22, 2009

On Belated Updates and Weirdness

Every blog or journal or story I write has a common problem: I stop writing them. Life happens. In fact, it happens so much and so fast that I can't deal with everything all at once. Writing is one of the first activities that suffers.

Life has happened a lot lately. Work-related stress has spilled everywhere. I am grateful to have a job, but it is not an easy living. Some evenings I feel a little like Westley in The Princess Bride when he's strapped, writhing, into The Machine and the Six-Fingered Man tells him, "I've just sucked one year of your life away."

It's a weird year for me. A momentous year, to be sure, but the weirdness has skyrocketed in equal measure to the gravitas.

Friday evening at work I broke into hysterical tears. It was just that kind of day. My boss valiantly tried to cheer me up, but I couldn't stop crying until I drove 40 minutes home and Hillary cooed and put Victor / Victoria in the DVD player. It's impossible to cry in the presence of Julie Andrews.

Then yesterday morning I was splayed on an exam table for five hours as a technician electrified my hair follicles. An acoustic cover of Bittersweet Symphony played over the PA when the doctor came to anesthetize me. I disintegrated into a stammering blushing mess.

In the afternoon I watched NASCAR for 20 minutes as I waited to use the women's room in New Hope. After the first 10 minutes I noticed the men's room was vacant. I spent the next 9 minutes wondering if I should use it, or if that would cause the weirdness to compound upon itself over and over until New Hope suddenly became a weirdness black hole. In the last minute, I wondered if that had already happened. After all, New Hope is already a strange and fabulous place.

In the evening I left a meeting before I wanted because Hillary was undead-tired. She needed a real bed and not a car seat. So I took one for the team, grumbled a little about it, apologized for grumbling, and that was that.

Today I sang Happy Birthday to a dear friend and left shortly thereafter to see my voice teacher. We had a great lesson and made significant progress. She was wonderful, generous with her time, and didn't bat an eye when I explained weekly visits were beyond my budget so could we do bi or triweekly?

Tonight I sit before a glowing square, typing a sketchy blog post when I should be writing homework or printing Cole Porter or Hoagy Carmichael or Noel Coward or Scott Joplin sheet music because that is my music of obsession for the moment and I wish to learn it. Again.

You see, I played the piano a lot as a child and greatly annoyed everyone with rhythmically incorrect versions of The Entertainer and The Maple Leaf Rag and Fur Elise and other fabulous music which I hated then but love now. And now all I can do with the piano is plink and plonk and hammer out triads like there's no tomorrow and play the occasional descending chord progressions I stole from Bach.

Alas I must away to bed. Tomorrow I will put my Target gift cards to good use and feed one of the following obsessions: Gene Kelly, Julie Andrews, Alfred Hitchcock, or Bob Fosse.

For good measure:

Friday, March 6, 2009

Obligatory Introspection

I hold an image of myself in my mind. Other people inform me this image is comically distorted to the negative. I insist it is realistic in the Simon Cowell sense. I try to see myself as others would see me. I try to be objective in these things.

This is a miserable way to live.

I should restrain from this sort of ruthless self-flagellation.
I should accept myself as worthy of love, shoulders and all.
I should laugh away the negative and stride through life
with unshakeable confidence,
with invulnerable self-possession,
with cocked hips and a smile.

Instead, I withdraw. My inability to measure up to my own standard paralyzes me, terrifies me, whittles my verve to splinters.

No one could succeed at anything with Cowell riding shotgun in their mind.
I won't succeed at anything until I kick the bastard out.
Kicking him out in 3 … 2 … 1 …


Tuesday, March 3, 2009

True Story


"Hello," I say. "I understand you wish to make a change to your account."

A female voice in my ear mutters under her breath. "Great. Did he transfer me to a machine? It sounds like--"

"I am not a machine, ma'am," I say.

"Oh, no?" she asks. "You sure sound like one."

"Please, ma'am."

Monday, March 2, 2009

Party of Limbaugh

Am I to understand Steele apologized to Limbaugh? His eyes have seen the glory of the golden microphone? Mine eyes have never seen a stranger sight in any dream. Alas, I repeat myself. I repeat myself often. You may have noticed.

Help. I was supposed to dance off the calories of dinner, but I lost my head in the internet hole instead. Fall down. Go boom.

Meanwhile, On Earth

My workdays continue to set "worst ever!" records in my mind. But all is not lost for various reasons which include: Fermilab is racing CERN to find the Higgs, Rezma Shetty hacked bacteria to smell like mint and bananas, and Kristen relaxes with the Slashdot Science feed.

An emotastic transgender nursery rhyme:

Now I lay me down to bed
Lover kiss me on the head
Anesthesia slowly dripping
Water music softly skipping
Clever handed doctor winging
Pebbles on the pool of time

I must away to dance off the dinner calories. Wish me burn. Howler doll? Indeed. Or perhaps the whole droll mess of it.

Lord! Hell, ow.

Doll her low.

I am such a dork.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Future Sexy Robo-Queen

I saw these linked by io9 today and went to pieces over them.

In order: meh, like it, love it, LOVE IT. The last on the right is wicked awesome. Consider me inspired. Topshop Unique goes on my mental checklist of win.